


A time to celebrate

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Mass, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, don't think the reader has to be female...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9258080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Some things deserve some recognition.For @cici0507 Cici’s Heaven vs Hell Christmas Challenge. I chose 14.Christmas Mass.  Thank you @inkiestdawn for you beta-ing!





	

Never have you ever, ever sat in a comfortable pew.  Seriously.  They just make you mad.  The Christmas carols do help, though, and it’s nice to sit in a church amongst a relatively happy community (recent suicides notwithstanding).  Under the tall wooden beams and ornate windows, you look around at the golden glow of Christmas lights strung over boughs of pine and sparkling festive colours and realise that you haven’t been to Christmas mass in years.

Cas is on your left, next is Dean, then Sam.  You’re against the pew end, looking down the red carpet to the altar beyond.  The four of you are wearing smart-casual so you can witness the new Pastor do his thing because you’re not sure he’s isn’t accidentally persuading people to sacrifice themselves with some misused or mispronounced Latin.  Pastor Jovnik only just began preaching, straight out of the seminary, which he entered straight out of a coven.  A wiccan coven, but still.  You’re not surprised that there’re are a few pagan stamps on his nativity.  It sounds ridiculous, but upon seeing the pastor, sometimes things just are.

“Hello!!  Hi everyone!” He waves as he skitters by. “Won’t be a minute.”  

You all frown at him and look at each other.  Was that really him?  He’s got fair, almost red hair, and he’s well built, boyish and at least 50 years old.  He looks like an upsized 14 year old.  You peer around the parishioners in front to watch him organise his things.  He talks to himself, pats his pockets, and has a little giggle about something, the collar accentuating his chinny chortle.

“Did we ever get a solid word from Chuck about whether he even cares about this stuff?” Dean grumbles.

“He cares,” Cas confirms.  “At least that’s…” Cas trails off, searching his memory for a quote.  He hasn’t one.  “That’s the… vibe I got.”

You all squint at him.  “The vibe, Cas?” you ask.  “The official Goddy vibe?”

He glances at you hesitantly, then lifts his chin with authority.  “Yes.”

You and Dean look at each other and tuck your lips into your head.   _Okeydokey_.

“He said ‘They are my children, and I want them safe’,” Cas recalls.  “Faith and worship provide a path of safety.”

“Of sorts,” Dean mutters again.  

You’ve been keeping an eye on Cas recently.  These days he seems to search for certainty more often, building maxims whenever he can, to help solidify his own path, you guess.  You wish family were enough, but maybe it isn’t.  More and more you’re by his side, checking he’s all right, encouraging him to talk.  Sometimes it feels like he does it to appease you, only saying what he feels is most sensible, the things he’s sure of.  You wish he’d speak more freely with you and not excuse himself so often.

For a strange moment you imagine hugging him - you have a lot of faith in hugs - and it rattles you a bit because hugging him wouldn’t just be a comfort, it would be a confusion.  He would detect your feelings, you’re sure, if you’re so close.  He deserves compassion and his situation is unique, so you’re attentive and generous.  And no matter how much you might indulge in a sideways glance when the jackets are off, you’re very careful, in fact, not to muddy it with thoughts of attraction, or anything like that.  

It’s your greatest gift to him, really, that you don’t make him have to figure that out, because pushing those feelings down, pretending they wouldn’t make you glow with happiness, it’s been the battle of your life.  God knows how Cas would navigate the prospect of romance.  So no.  No, you don’t hug, despite the good it would do, because it would be a confusion.  A distracting, messy, dream-fueling confusion.  You keep it to squeezed hands, listening ears and kind smiles instead.

“Welcome everyone!” the Pastor begins.  “If you would rise with me and we’ll begin this glorious Christmas night with a song.”

You should all feel a lot more comfortable here, but suddenly you don’t.  Something deceitful flickers in you, a bitter guilt, maybe about Cas? About Chuck?  Maybe it’s that you’re not here to worship, but to spy.

You all stand, Sam and Dean flapping to find the right page.  Sam finds it first and they share a book, dedicatedly reading each word and tripping over the rhythm for a few lines.  You recognise the tune and easily join in.  Cas sings, confident and true to the end.

“Isn’t this marvellous?” the Pastor asks the small, quiet attendance as they settling back into their seats.  Below him, some children play quietly with a basket of toys, a baby crawling back and forth between siblings and parents. He leans over as though the pulpit is in the way.  “Everyone looks so well and loved.  So much energy here tonight.”

 _Energy?_  You feel the energy of your friends get suspicious.

“I wanted to talk to you this season about thanks and sacrifice…”

 _Oooohshit. Damn! I mean, gosh._ You twitch your head, reminding yourself that cursing doesn’t matter.  Cas glances at the gesture.

Jovnik starts with Mary, and how she gave her faith, but is now going on about giving thanks to those who give their time and what it is to ‘give it all’.  Sam and Dean listen with flat glares, decidedly unimpressed with this particular topic.  You sit and listen for any hints or clues, your gaze idle, but Cas watches him ramble on with a peer of interrogation, right at him, as though he’s thinking hard about the words and there’s no one else in the room.  And then he starts to get that judgy look about him and you’re watching with a wary eye.  Jovnik is talking about Jesus’ sacrifice, the Easter story, in his roundabout sermon on giving, straying way off the map.  And then the pastor asks the worst rhetorical question he could ever ask a literal angel:

“But who amongst us can say we have truly sacrificed?”

Castiel stands.

“No- _Shit!_ Cas! _Sit down!”_ You and Dean whisper harshly and you pull on his coat.  Of course he can’t be moved, and you glare at the brothers desperately.

“I have sacrificed.  My friends have sacrificed.  They’ve given everything.”  He says it clear and loud, the tones bouncing around the church, pure with heart.

“Cas, please!  This isn’t important!” you plead.  

He looks down at you and moves past your knees, out of the pews and towards the sanctuary, up a few of the steps.  Sam and Dean keep whispering his name, urging him to come back, but it does nothing.

“Tell us your story, friend,” says Pastor Jovnik.

“No Cas!” you almost call. “Don’t tell your story!”

“Jesus wasn’t the only one who sacrificed,” he says to the priest.  “Many, many people sacrificed, and they were all God’s children.”

Jovnik blinks a bit. “Yes, well, there’s a bit more to it than that-”

“The world has been saved over and again.” Cas talks to the congregation, the tenor and surety of his words making everyone sit up straight.  Even they know he has a gravity of significance.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I’ll go get ’im.”

You put down your hymn book and politely walk up the aisle, that straight armed scuttle that makes you invisible.  At the bottom of the steps you take Cas’ hand saying “Come on, come back.”

“They should know, Y/N,” he say, confused that you don’t want this.  “You and Dean and Sam should have your recognition.  You’ve all given so much, everything you’ve ever had, for this earth.”

“Yes, I know, it doesn’t matter.  Come on,” you tug, trying to turn away.  

“Then when will you get your thanks?” he says firmly.  

“Well I’m trusting heaven will still be there when we’re done,” you huff, hanging off the end of his arm. ““Come on, save it for Easter.”

But he’s not satisfied, and waits for a better answer, looking at you with that ringing patience that can reshape coastlines.  You wither under his gaze.  “They will know, Cas.  There’re the chronicles, there are witnesses, but it doesn’t have to happen right now.  Just, come sit down.”

“They died for you.”  He tells them all, stern and righteous.  Jovnik blinks, and leans his chin on his fist, rapt with the story.  “Each of them in turn, so that you could live your lives however you want-”

“Hey!” You yank on his hand, making no difference, then run around him to the step above, making him turn away from them and focus on you.  “Hey, I don’t want you to tell my story, okay?” You’re almost whispering but in the perfect acoustics of the cavernous church, it sounds like desperate prayer.

“Why not?  It’s ridiculous that you should give so much and get no thanks-”

“ _You_ thank me!” you peep.  Behind him you can see Dean and Sam sitting forward in their bench, ready to get up and help.  People watch like you’re performing some Christmas allegory.

“But who am I? I’m one soul, Y/N! The scale of what you’ve done-”

 _“Who are you?!_  Castiel!” You’re getting cross, and whispering loud enough to sound harsh and squeaky.  He’s blinking at you like he’s never heard your voice before.  “You stood by us!  You give too, every time!  You give me faith!  And strength!  Each of us has made mistakes under the banner of the greater good, and all of us have had to try and see what we should do when all we wanted was to keep each other safe!  I have been thankful for you every-   _Look.”_ You interrupt yourself and grab hold of his jacket lapel, thumping your fist against his chest as you speak, his gaze tilted up at you while you try to convince him.  “Stop worrying about getting it right.  You do good.  You love us and we love you.  It shows in what we do.  That’s enough.”

He puts his hand on your wrist, and starts to look like he’s stuffed it up again.  So you pull him in for a hug, moving down a step, and he wraps his arms around you in kind.  You look down, not at the audience hanging on your every word.  “You should be with us at Christmas.  And whenever you need to rest, or fight… you deserve it, Cas.”

His chest rises and falls with a heavy thought, and you move back enough to look at him, your forearm resting on his shoulder, your other hand cupping his cheek.  “You deserve us.”

“Us,” he says.  His hands are on your waist, you realise, and they squeeze, underlining what he might mean.  Us.

For long seconds you get lost in his gaze like you’ve never allowed before, eyes so sky-blue that you don’t need wings.  

“You think I can’t hear how you protect me.”  You can’t tell if it’s a question.  “Nothing else has given me more hope.  The idea of us.”

A hope-bell rings loud in your chest, making you stumble inside. “I wasn’t sure if that’s something you would want.”

He’s been thankful for so long.

Cas’ palm slides over your cheek too, fingers threading over your ear and into your hair, warm and dry and loving.  “Of course I do.”  

He pulls you close and at first it’s as though he’s simply put your lips together, a gesture of kindness and love from someone who knows both so deeply and isn’t afraid of the truth of it. You pause, forget which way your breath should go, and feel him there.  He tastes like water and air and heart.

Then he tilts a little, giving his lips to you in away that makes you give too, and it’s a kiss, a _kiss_ , between you.  It’s like his mind has reached across, the way he sometimes seems to when you talk, and whispered and hummed.  

Cas’ breathe breaks at the back of his throat, as though now’s the moment he’s become mindful of others in the room.  When he pulls away, even as you lean against him, that strength tugs at the attraction you’ve been crushing. _Oh that’s why it’s called a crush._

He stops and looks at your lips intensely, almost suspicious, like _How long have they been there?_  Or maybe they’re showing signs of the tingling buzz you feel, the luck and privilege, and the flaring desire you feel in your curves and corners. It was a wonderful kiss.

“I don’t think I could deserve you, Y/N.”  Goodness his voice goes deep.  Deeply.

“I think-”  Hooooboy, who are you kidding, that’s lust.  Full blown, flame-alive lust.  “I think we could argue about who deserves the other less and no one would win.”

Cas softens, concedes a little with a hidden smile.  “Yes, that sounds like something we would argue about.”

“Oh yeah.  We could argue all night.”

 _Ohshit don’t squint at me like that._  You clear your throat and let him go.  “Come sit down.”

“Alright.”

You turn down the steps and applause cracks through the room, and although you hastily nod _Thank you, thanks_ , to the odd parishioner, Cas takes it in with his usual innocence and agrees with the general assembly. “Thank you.  It was a very nice kiss.”

You sit back down next to Dean, who says “You wrapped that up real good.  Nice and neat.”

“Shuttup.”

Cas settles himself between you and the pew end, then looks down, collecting your hand in his.  With the contact between you, you’re sure he’ll feel your nerves, your whole-body buzz of anticipation, and you occupy your mind with whatever church-appropriate thought you can generate.  Turns out the best you can do is _Oh goodness… ohgoodnesshogoodnessohgoodness._   You take a deep breath and blink your focus at the pulpit.  Cas laces his fingers with yours and allows himself the quietest of half smiles when he hears your mind slip _sssshit.  Cas._

“My goodness,” Pastor Jovnik says, slowly getting his groove back.  “Well I don’t know where you guys were hiding that but thank you!  Wasn’t that delightful!  A wonderful lead in to the theme of giving.  Now, if I can just share with you, these beautiful passages of Latin I’ve discovered…”


End file.
